


Away from Harm

by foolsonparade



Category: Arctic Monkeys, Last Shadow Puppets
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, I've got a sickfic addiction, M/M, Rated for swearing, Romance, Sickfic, milex - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-12
Updated: 2015-03-12
Packaged: 2018-03-17 11:38:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3527990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foolsonparade/pseuds/foolsonparade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While touring to support their album, The Last Shadow Puppets run into a spot of trouble when Alex falls ill. Luckily, Miles is more than willing to play nurse and provide comfort.<br/>"What a spot in a storm to cuddle up and stay nice and warm. Away from harm in my baby's arms..." -Wondrous Place, Billy Fury</p>
            </blockquote>





	Away from Harm

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Never happened (as far as I know). I don't own Miles or Alex; I just occasionally borrow them for my twisted enjoyment.   
> Hello! Here I am, back with another oneshot of shameless Alex torture and Miles to the rescue. What can I say, I've got a type. The title was inspired by The Last Shadow Puppets' cover of the fabulous Wondrous Place by Billy Fury.  
> As always, feedback is more than welcome and greatly appreciated! Enjoy!

“Hey, love, you alright?” asks Miles. “You look a bit peaky.”

Alex knows this already, both because the hotel room they’re sharing came equipped with a mirror and because he feels just about as good as he looks (which is to say not very good at all), but all the same he replies with a quiet, “Yeah, fine,” in an attempt to keep from worrying his boyfriend.

His head is aching and he’d absolutely relish a chance at catching a nap before their show tonight, but Miles seems keen on sticking around, at least for the moment. “Are you sure?”

Alex tries not to roll his eyes, more out of fear of upsetting his headache than preservation of Miles’ feelings. “’course I’m sure, you wanker,” he says, charmed despite the distracting malaise that’s settled within every pore. “Quit worryin’ so much or you’ll get grey hairs.”

“Oi,” Miles protests, “you’re the one who decided to roll outta bed lookin’ like shite.”

Alex would never ‘decide’ to look or feel as thoroughly unwell as he does, but he can’t very well tell Miles this without coaxing the overprotective man into mother-hen mode and thus shattering any vague chance he would otherwise have at some peace and quiet. True enough, Miles may leave him be for a nap if he knew the truth—that Alex feels sore enough to have conceivably run a marathon the previous day without his recollection, not that such circumstances are likely—but every waking moment thereafter would be chock-full of worried glances and noticeable pity and Alex just doesn’t feel ill enough to risk it just yet.

Miles must take Alex’s prolonged silence to mean that he’s offended, because he follows his statement up with a gentle, “I’m jokin’, love. You could never look like shite.” If only he knew that Alex simply forgot to reply, too occupied by his thoughts and the nausea that stirs and twists his insides, he would probably have reacted quite differently. “Hey, ‘ow’d ya like to grab a bit of breakfast?”

Unless his memory fails him, it’s well past noon and probably no longer qualifies as breakfast time, but this doesn’t change the fact that Alex doesn’t feel up to eating.

“Actually, I were thinkin’ I’d stay in today,” he says, clearing his scratchy throat as an afterthought. “Just until soundcheck and all that.” He swallows down bile at the very thought of taking in sustenance, and tries to cover the action with a weak smile. “That shouldn’t stop you, though,” he adds. “I’m sure you’d like to have sommat other than room service food for once.”

Miles looks uncertain, though whether he’s onto Alex’s little charade or he’s just considering his food options is a mystery. At length, he says, “Yeah, alright,” and visibly deflates at the thought of going off alone. Alex’s heart is wrenched with guilt. “Want me to bring sommat back for ya?”

“No thanks,” Alex says, hoping he doesn’t physically pale at the thought of eating. “I’ll prolly order room service a bit later.” It’s a lie, and he hopes it doesn’t sound like such.

“I’ll hold you to that,” Miles warns, prompting Alex to hope in vain that he’s joking. He knows Miles well enough to know how serious he takes things concerning Alex’s health, and so it’s beyond pointless to wish the bugger would go a day without pushing food upon his forgetful and vaguely-self-destructive boyfriend, but that doesn’t stop Alex. “Can’t ‘ave you faintin’ in the middle of the show, yeah?”

“’course,” Alex agrees, though he thinks fainting would actually be preferable to consciousness at this point. “Now sod off. Go eat your ‘breakfast.’”

Miles laughs good-naturedly and offers Alex a quick peck on the lips before shrugging on his coat and heading for the door. “I’ll be back shortly. Don’t go trashin’ the room while I’m gone, love.” Alex can easily promise that he won’t, and Miles flashes him a stellar grin. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” Alex says, and then nearly cries for joy when the door clicks shut and he’s alone at last.

The silence that follows Miles’ departure is nigh heavenly, for it inspires a slight decline in the level of pain pressing against Alex’s skull and it allows him to drop his sloppily-constructed façade. When he does the latter, however, he becomes aware of every ache and pain ravaging his slight form and grows lightheaded with the extent of it all.

Deciding that he ought to utilize his alone-time, Alex crawls back into the unmade bed for a nap, only to wake up minutes later when the chills become too much to bear. He hadn’t even realized that he was cold, but suddenly he feels as though his blood has been frozen in his veins, and his body feels heavier for it.

Shivering intensely, he rolls out of bed and pads over to where he discarded his coat and pulls it on over his rumbled clothes. It does little to help, but he somehow still feels more comfortable for it.

After that, it isn’t hard to fall into sleep’s eager grip and the accompanying fever dreams of blind panic and a vague feeling of dread. Even in sleep, though, he feels ill and cold and positively exhausted just for having gotten out of bed that morning, and so his brief allotted naptime is anything but restful and, upon waking, he can’t help but think that maybe it’d done more harm than it’d done good. After all, he awakes both colder and sweatier than when first he’d drifted off, and his lungs feel small as though he’s been jogging. In his discomfort, it takes him some time to wonder what it was that woke him.

His answer arrives a second later in the form of a raspy voice asking, “Alex?” from somewhere near the door.

Knowing he’s been caught in a lie, Alex hums in lieu of a response. He’s huddled shivering and clad in his winter coat beneath layers of blankets, and he feels like Death Himself is waiting at the sidelines for all of this to shake out in His favor. There’s no way Alex will be able to fib his way out of this one.

“Are you alright?”

It’s a dumb question and they both know it. Alex is buried beneath the covers and he has his back turned to Miles, but there is no way those perceptive brown eyes have missed the tremors wracking Alex’s form or the fact that he’s been napping even though he’d woken up perhaps only an hour beforehand.

Alex knows that nothing he can say will change this conversation’s outcome, and so he elects not to respond and to instead wait for the inevitable fallout of his earlier lies.

Miles’ muffled footsteps can be heard even from within Alex’s blanket cave, and he’s unsurprised to hear that dazzling voice ring out once again, this time from somewhere on the opposite end of the large bed. “Alex, love, please look at me.” Alex hesitates because despite having no mirror in sight he knows for a fact that Miles won’t like what he sees. “Please, love. You’re worryin’ me ‘ere.”

Slowly, Alex shifts his weight around so he’s lying on his right side, and then he pulls the covers away from his face and settles them around his shoulders to help generate warmth. It’s futile, but it makes him feel better about facing Miles’ reaction.

“Oh, love,” he sighs, wide eyes welling up with emotion and lips twisting into a sympathetic grimace. “Why wouldn’t ya tell me you was feelin’ poorly?”

When first he goes to speak, Alex’s voice is too croaky to be intelligible and he has to clear his throat of some of the hoarseness before he can try again. “I’ve not as yet admitted to such allegations,” he rasps, more because it’s in his nature to be snarky than because it’s wise to continue down the denial route. Really, he knows he needs to learn to accept defeat, but he’s too sick to learn a lesson at present.

“You bastard,” is all Miles has to say in response, and Alex feels the mattress dip beneath Miles’ weight before he realizes what he’s trying to do. He’s got his hand outstretched to check Alex for fever, and Alex hides beneath the covers before he even thinks about what he’s doing.

“Al,” Miles sighs. “Please stop this. I’m just tryin’ to help.”

“’m cold,” Alex whines in response, a harsh shiver assaulting his frame to punctuate the statement. “’m very, very cold, Mi.”

“That prolly means you’ve got a temperature, love,” Miles croons gently, shifting his weight around until Alex can only assume that he’s lying down beside him. This is comforting, somehow, and he almost doesn’t need Miles to coax him out from beneath the covers. Almost. “Please, Al, I only want to help ya feel better.”

Tired and trembling with cold, Alex pulls the covers away from his eyes and meets Miles’ worried gaze with what he has to assume is a very pathetic expression. He flinches when he feels Miles’ cold, long-fingered hand on his forehead, but doesn’t protest.

“Baby, you’re burnin’ up,” Miles says sadly, brushing sweaty bangs out of Alex’s face and running his fingers through the somewhat-greasy hair. “’ow long’ve you been feelin’ sick?”

“’few days,” Alex croaks, throat aching in protest. “It wasn’t bad until today.”

Slender fingers continue to twirl and comb his hair as Miles’ round eyes take in every one of Alex’s sickly features, from the shadows beneath his eyes to the flush of fever coloring his otherwise-pasty face. All the while, Alex notices Miles’ expression growing exponentially more troubled, and he feels guilt and regret tighten around his aching chest. 

“What’re your symptoms?” Miles asks after a moment spent studying his ailing boyfriend. Suddenly, the list seems too expansive to name, but Alex resists lying to Miles any further.

“Me throat and ‘ead are hurtin’ a lot,” he admits softly, mindful of the pain flaring up any time he dares to raise his voice above his current hoarse whisper. “Come to think of it, everything’s hurtin’ a lot. Me joints, me ‘ead, me throat, me chest, me stomach…” He swallows, suddenly sick to his stomach again, and he’s sure Miles has noticed.

“Are you goin’ to be sick?” he asks gently, tone implying that he’s prepared to help him rush to the bathroom on a moment’s notice.

“No,” Alex says after some brief consideration. “Not just yet.”

Miles relaxes a bit, but it’s hardly an improvement. He’s practically stiff with concern and maybe some degree of stress, and again Alex feels guilty for having caused it.

“Were feelin’ lightheaded earlier,” he says, taking Miles’ silence as a signal to continue his list. “An’ I’ve been nauseous all day.” He pauses. “And ‘m cold.” To remedy this, Miles scoots a bit closer on the bed and begins rubbing Alex’s arm as if to generate warmth.

“Can ya play the show tonight, love?” Miles asks after some time spent in silence broken only by the sound of his hands scraping against the covers as he continues trying to warm Alex.

“’course I can play the fuckin’ show, ya twat,” Alex growls in response before he’s even properly considered the question. He’s really not feeling very well at all, but he thinks he’d have to be ordered by a medical doctor not to play before he’d even consider cancelling or postponing an event on account of his health. Something about the thought of that doesn’t sit right with him, and he’s sure of his decision no matter how hastily it’d been made.

Miles doesn’t seem to believe him, though, for doubtfulness touches his handsome features and his hand comes to rest on Alex’s cheek. “Are you sure?” he asks, combing bangs out of Alex’s face with his spindly fingers. “No one’s asking ya to play tough, Al. You can’t go pushin’ yourself too hard when you’re not well.”

“I don’t plan to push meself too ‘ard,” Alex retaliates, eyelids growing heavy with exhaustion. “But I’m not sick enough for any sort of action to be called-for.”

Suddenly, Alex is knocked out of the dreamy state of half-sleep he’d fallen into when a brutal coughing fit tears through his lungs and has him gasping desperately for air. Miles holds his lax hand all the while, watching Alex’s face flush with exertion as he rides out the fit with tense shoulders and teary eyes, and his heart goes out to his sick boyfriend.

When the fit has subsided, Alex grows very limp and his grip slackens further until the hand Miles is holding is practically dead in his grasp. 

“Alright?” Miles inquires after Alex has had a moment to gather his wits.

“Fine,” Alex responds, grimacing at the pain in his throat. “Sorry ‘bout that. I dunno what ‘appened.”

“No need to apologize,” Miles assures him, dropping Alex’s hand and reaching up to caress his cheek once again. Alex isn’t sure how it happened, but the coolness of Miles’ touch is now refreshing rather than startling, and he finds himself relaxing completely and falling into a contented sleep. After that, he’s vaguely aware of Miles’ weight shifting as if to get up, but he’s too far under to care.

It hardly matters anyway, because when he awakes again Miles is there, though he seems to be coming back from one place or another because he’s shedding his coat over by the door and carrying over a nondescript plastic bag.

“Where’d you go?” Alex asks, accent thick with sleep. He moves to sit up, but stops when the action makes him dizzy.

“Drug store,” Miles replies. “Got some supplies and shite.”

Miles tosses the plastic bag onto the bed and starts unpacking its contents while Alex watches him with as much interest as he can muster in his groggy state.

“Are ya plannin’ to play nurse, then?” he asks, offering a smirk.

“’course,” says Miles, tearing open the packaging on what appears to be a thermometer. It’s one of those shitty ones taken at the ear, but Alex supposes it’s better than an archaic oral one. “We have to get you healthy.”

After reading through the instruction manual and playing around with the contraption for a bit, Miles approaches Alex with the thermometer armed and aimed right at him. Alex squirms.

“Mi, do I _have_ to ‘ave that thing in me ear?” he whines. “I fuckin’ hate those things. They’re uncomfortable as fuck.”

“Yes,” Miles enunciates, crawling into bed beside his patient. “Now shut it.”

Alex obeys, feeling oddly compliant, and allows Miles to stick the intrusive object in his ear until it beeps to signify it’s got a reading. Peering down at the screen, Miles makes a _tsk_ sound and then repeats the action, this time with Alex’s left ear. A few moments pass, and then there’s another beep.

“What’s the prognosis?” Alex drawls while Miles disinfects the thermometer and puts it back in its case.

“You’ll live,” Miles replies jestingly, reaching behind him for another item from his drug store excursion. “You oughtta take sommat to lower it just in case, though. You’re bound to get overheated durin’ the show and I don’t fancy draggin’ ya off stage if you faint.”

“Ha ha,” Alex says sarcastically. “I’ll take whatever you’ve got.” All the while, Miles is reading directions on pill containers and preparing an appropriate dosage and combination, and a few moments later he tips a handful of pills into Alex’s waiting hand. Then, he cracks open a bottle of orange juice and holds it out. Alex snorts.

“What?” Miles asks. “Got a problem with orange juice?”

“It’s just,” Alex starts, cracking a smile, “I’m wonderin’ if ya got chicken soup while you were out grocery shoppin’. Y’know, since we’re goin’ generic now.”

“You’re a right snob, Turner,” Miles says.

Alex laughs and then stifles a cough against the back of the hand not holding various pills. “When did we go domestic, though, Mi? Did I miss that bit?”

“Does it matter?” Miles asks. “Take your fuckin’ medicine, Al, or I’m callin’ your mum.”

At that, Alex shuts up and throws back the pills, washing them down with the orange juice in Miles’ outstretched hand.

“Now, that weren’t so hard, yeah?”

“You’re a twat,” Alex replies, shaking his head and sinking down beneath the covers. Miles just laughs and reaches behind himself again for another one of his items of purchase. “Oh, Christ, what’ve you got for me now?” Alex grumbles.

“Just some saltines,” Miles says. “Don’t look so scornful.”

“I’m pretty fuckin’ far from hungry right now, to be honest,” Alex says, swallowing against the nausea and the pain in his throat. “Don’t we ‘ave a soundcheck to be at?”

Miles scoots across the bed to sit beside Alex and then extracts a cracker from the package. “Yeah, but I’m not lettin’ ya leave this room without some food in ya.” He offers Alex the saltine by waving it in front of his face. “C’mon, just ‘ave a few.”

“Fine, you twat,” Alex says, snatching the cracker away. “If it’ll get you to stop pesterin’ me.”

Pleased, Miles holds out the package and watches closely as Alex bites into the cracker against his better judgment. As expected, his stomach protests the action, but he elects to ignore it in favor of appeasing Miles and swallows against the roughness of his throat.

Ten minutes later, Alex has eaten enough to mollify Miles and they’re finally able to set out for the venue and soundcheck; and, by some miracle, they get there right on time.

Almost immediately upon arrival, Miles requests a stool for Alex to sit on so he doesn’t have to spend too much time on his feet, and Alex is beyond thankful. The very walk through the venue is enough to tire him to the extent of lightheadedness, and those saltines sit heavy and uneasy in his stomach. He’s half worried he may even be sick before show time arrives.

Miles’ request is dutifully fulfilled by some roadies and soon Alex is seated upon a wooden stool with his guitar strapped on securely. Somehow, though, he doesn’t feel better for it. In fact, he’s growing increasingly worried that his meager breakfast will make an unwanted reappearance if something isn’t done to appease the nausea rolling and scraping at his insides like a caged animal while he tries to remain neutral in expression. Miles is strumming out the first few chords to one of their songs and he’s sure he’s expected to join in, but he can’t very well do that if he lets this sickness get the best of him.

Hands shaking, he plays some chords he’s only half sure are the correct ones and hopes that Miles is oblivious to his discomfort. Unfortunately, though, he could never be so lucky.

Miles stops strumming before they’ve even played half a verse and covers the distance between them in two long strides, eyes filled to the brim with concern. “Alright, love?” he asks quietly, respecting Alex’s love of privacy by speaking very close to his ear so there’s no risk of being overheard.

Unable to form proper words, Alex just shakes his head a bit too harshly and gulps down air to fill his aching lungs.

“What’s wrong?” Miles says gently, placing a cold hand on Alex’s neck. “Are you goin’ to be sick?” Alex nods this time, swallowing against the urge as best he can. “Fuck.”

Alex is vaguely aware of Miles calling to a roadie to find a bucket or something, but he’s too focused on not being sick in front of all of the crew and orchestra to zero in on the specifics of what his boyfriend is saying. He’s pretty sure that Miles is speaking soothing words now, but he’s just not sure.

Disaster and further mortification are both avoided when Alex manages to hold down his stomach contents until there’s something to be sick into, but he’s still beyond embarrassed that he vomits mere moments after a bucket is thrust into his grasp. Again, he’s pretty sure that Miles is trying to comfort him through gentle words and a supportive hand rubbing his back, but he’s too busy retching to catch anything unambiguous leaving Miles’ caring lips. It doesn’t matter, though. He’s just happy to have him there.

He’s not sure how long he spends heaving, but eventually he runs out of anything to bring up and spends only a few moments dry-heaving before the fit subsides altogether. As relieving as this should be, though, when he’s no longer focused on vomiting he’s overcome by embarrassment.

“It’s alright, love,” Miles croons in his ear, perhaps sensing Alex’s humiliation. “Here, gimme that.” He doesn’t wait for any sort of response from Alex before pulling the bucket out of his clutch and moving it to who-knows-or-cares-where. “It’s alright, baby. Don’t worry about it. Are you feelin’ any better now?”

Alex wants to remind him that he’s just been sick in front of the crew and orchestra and there’s no word for his level of embarrassment, but all of this seems too difficult to say aloud and so he settles for a curt nod.

“D’you want to go lie down for a bit?” Miles asks, combing his fingers through Alex’s hair with one hand and clasping his shaky hand with the other.

“No,” Alex gasps, shaking his head. “I feel alright now. Let’s finish the soundcheck.”

Alex meets his gaze and Miles looks like he wants to argue, but something in Alex’s expression apparently stops him because next thing Alex knows they’re both strumming away at their guitars and singing into their microphones as if nothing happened. It’s comforting in a way to bounce back from that, but the comfort isn’t enough to make him forget about his various pains and overall feeling of weakness. Really, soundcheck can’t end soon enough.

It does end, though, even if not in a hurry; and eventually Alex and Miles are walking with painstaking slowness back to their dressing room.

A minute later finds the two of them seated side-by-side on the dressing room sofa with Alex’s head rested upon Miles’ bony shoulder and Miles’ arm wrapped around Alex, and somehow despite it all Alex has a good feeling about the show. Something about being with Miles (whether they’re playing a rock show or cuddling on the sofa) gives Alex a sense of optimism he wouldn’t otherwise have under the present circumstances.

“And you’re absolutely certain you want to go through with this?” Miles asks softly, craning his neck to peer down at Alex. “We can still postpone if we need to.”

“You must be jokin’,” Alex laughs, eyes fluttering closed. “I feel great.”

And despite the illness and the embarrassment and all the other shit today presented, Alex really means it.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! If you've got a mo, leave me a comment or shoot me a message at most-indignant.tumblr.com
> 
> Have a great day! <3 xoxo


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